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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29156202">I picture it soft and I ache</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/mehrto/pseuds/mehrto'>mehrto</a>, <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/underthelinden/pseuds/tagelied'>tagelied (underthelinden)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>18th Century, Alternate Universe - Human, F/M, Gardener Crowley (Good Omens), Historical, Literature, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Slow Burn, Writer Aziraphale (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 10:00:14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,617</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29156202</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/mehrto/pseuds/mehrto, https://archiveofourown.org/users/underthelinden/pseuds/tagelied</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Disillusioned, formerly famous poet Aziraphale Fell gets sent to the Roman countryside to find inspiration and pen a cycle of poems for his sponsors at the Society of Arts. He feels lost in the unknown country, and no amount of sunshine and good food can create the spark he needs to create. That is, until he spots the devastatingly handsome gardener working right in front of his window. Crowley, however, is entirely unlike the other muses he’s worked with. He’s lively and snarky and clever, but he lives in a world entirely different to Aziraphale’s own. Before he knows it, Aziraphale is falling far too deeply for his own good...</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Do It With Style Good Omens Reverse Bang, Good Omens Human AUs</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>I picture it soft and I ache</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>A huge thank you to the mods over at the DIWS reverse bang for organising this event. Collabing with mehrto has been a great experience, and they have created several art pieces you will see embedded in this fic. Please give their <i> amazing </i> art some love on <a href="https://twitter.com/itsmehrto">twitter</a>, on <a href="https://instagram.com/meh.rto">instagram</a>  or on <a href="https://mehrto.tumblr.com/">tumblr</a>.</p><p>And, of course, no chapter of mine would be complete without my beta-reader <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thyra279">Thyra279</a>.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
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</div><p>“Signore Fell!” a young man’s voice called out.</p><p>Aziraphale shielded his eyes against the bright afternoon sun as he descended from the ship’s ramp and tried to make him out among the crowd. The lad called out again, squeezing past the other merchants, sailors and idlers on the pier, waving a letter in his hand. Aziraphale recognised the sun-burnt face and the sturdy frame, although everything else about the lad had been different when they’d last seen each other.</p><p>“Signore!” he called again, this time close enough for a proper greeting. “Follow me, good sir! The pier is too crowded to talk.”</p><p>The boy slipped past a merchant’s stand within a moment and Aziraphale hurried to follow. He would have liked to enjoy the cooling sea breeze for another couple of minutes, but he couldn’t risk losing sight of his Italian contact. The crowd was loud and the further away from the coastline he got, the more he noticed the heat and the stench. Fish and animal shit, the smell of damp hay. It would take him quite a while to get used to this. Italy was different for all the senses.</p><p>The boy stopped at a junction that marked the end of the pier and Aziraphale took a breath. He’d never been good at running. Especially not since he’d laid down his responsibilities at his late father’s estate and handed them over to a steward in favour of spending a great portion of his life in the city, circling between the salons of the well-esteemed and educated, artists’ societies and collectors. It was what he did for a living – or at least, it would have been, if it weren’t for two fundamentally different but equally important factors. Firstly, Aziraphale Fell could have never worked a single day of his life and still died a rich man. Secondly, he’d been suffering a dry spell of imagination for longer than a year.</p><p>For a man whose self-declared purpose in life was the construction of verses, finely wrought together by beautiful words and mellifluous rhythms, this naturally posed quite a problem. More than a problem, really; one could call it a crisis of identity. He’d consulted friends, colleagues, even a doctor, but nothing had helped. At first, he’d worried that he might have run out of energy and thought that a short jaunt to a seaside resort would set things to right again, but he’d tried in vain. He must have lost something else, the spark of genius that inhabited each artist and spurred them to create.</p><p>When he’d confided in one of his associates at the Society of Arts, he’d been told that the problem would be taken care of. They couldn’t lose a popular name such as his to the untalented, faceless masses – that was the wording, more or less. A fortnight ago, a letter had arrived on his desk, inviting him to spend half a year in the Roman countryside. The offer was a good one, and there had been no reason to pass it up. He’d been to the continent before, and he’d enjoyed it. A change of scenery might work wonders for his inspiration.</p><p>At least he hoped so. He couldn’t bear the idea of becoming an outcast amongst… his friends. The literary world was changing, faster by the day. When Aziraphale had been young, the arts had been different. It had been a world in which only the rich or the lucky ones who had been taken under some Maecenas’s wing could create, without the pressure of time or reach. These days, however, quality wasn’t the only thing that mattered. Upstarts were shooting from the ground in every place imaginable, turning the game into a <em>market</em>, luck into numbers and calculations. Aziraphale could be glad that he hadn’t lost his place in the Society yet, granting him fixed entrance at the salons of the illustrious patrons his generation so desperately clung to. He couldn’t imagine writing for a tidal wave of anonymous, faceless readers that could come crashing down on him at any given moment. The possibility of standing on his own feet without the support of his colleagues intimidated him, even as a man of his age. He’d never learnt it, never had to.</p><p>Aziraphale shook his head to rid himself of these unpleasant thoughts and looked past the boy’s shoulder at the lively market street ahead of them. A horse-drawn cart stood in the gutter separating them from the men and women ambling along the street and realisation dawned upon him. He wrinkled his nose in discontent. Seeing how he had been blessed with a fortunate standing and good taste, it was no wonder that Aziraphale considered himself a man of standards, and as such, he had avoided travelling in a heap of stray thus far, although it seemed that today would be the day to change that.</p><p><em>Well</em>, he told himself, <em>at least it could be considered charmingly rustic</em>.</p><p>He tried to catch his breath before nodding a polite greeting towards an old man already seated on the cart and the lad waiting for him on the street, and a joyful smile spread across the lad’s face. As he watched the crinkles spread in the corners of his eyes, Aziraphale realised that it was no longer quite a boy’s face.</p><p>“Tomaso, it is very good to see you, but I do wish you would rush me just a little less,” he said, still surprised to see the change in the young man’s face.</p><p>He’d worked as a footman for the society a few years back, when Aziraphale had first been introduced to Gabriel. While most of his colleagues had little appreciation for the servants that kept the place running, he had remembered them well, exchanging polite greetings and tidbits of conversation as he went and crossed their paths. Tomaso had been his favourite though, with the stories he used to tell of the life in the Roman countryside – back then, still a faraway dream landscape that Aziraphale visited in his daydreams and pictured full of shepherds and their flocks, jolly milkmaids and ruins crumbled to pieces by time, mercilessly pushing down on their backbone.</p><p>Now, however, weathered lines made Tomaso’s face seem all the more experienced, and older, too, when he smiled.</p><p>“I wouldn’t dream of it, signore. This–” he extended a hand toward the elderly man on the cart, “is my father, he will take us to Rome, and I’ll take you from the market to the quarters of the Society.”</p><p>“Thank you. That is very kind of you, dear boy.”</p><p>“Well, I <em>was</em> sent, so you’d better direct your thanks towards Signore Pulsifer,” Tomaso said and clambered onto the cart, where he cleared some space for them to sit. “He will meet you in Rome, actually, and accompany you to the country house they have rented for you.”</p><p>He extended his hand to Aziraphale and pulled him up, clasping his father’s shoulder as he did so, signalling that they could start the journey now. </p><p>“A country house?” Aziraphale asked, mildly perplexed. “I’d assumed I would be staying with one of their people, as a guest.”</p><p>“No, no. They have a – cottage, you would call it? – in a small village.”</p><p>“Oh,” said Aziraphale, and was left to ponder this.</p><p>Of course, it might be better for his focus if he was to work on his own, but he <em>had</em> hoped to find at least a few points of interaction with local artists. It was disheartening to hear that he would spend the six months ahead of him in a solitary cottage, nestled away from the lively crowds of Rome he had heard so terribly much about. The thought of spending some time at the lavish estate of an Italian poet, who could take him to outings in the city and introduce him to the finer society there, and with whom he could discuss the old classics, had been quite exciting to him. To know that this wouldn’t be the case, and that his company would consist of small-town folk only, well – it did rather dull the image of bucolic idealism that he had so carefully cultivated in his mind’s eye.</p><p>He got lost in those thoughts, bordering between disappointment and feeling guilty at his own ungratefulness, as they passed the crowds in the streets of Ostia and made their way into the open countryside, following the Tiber at a distance so as to avoid the marsh ground at its banks. If he had been in better moods, he would have admired the scenery – a great plain, the faraway outline of reeds crowding the river bends, and the broken off edges of stonework that <em>must</em> have belonged to an ancient temple, graced by the smile of a once powerful goddess now long gone – but as it was, he instead revelled in his own misfortune.</p><p>Aziraphale had grown up with literature surrounding him. Of course, it had all been very different back then. His parents had been pious people, and his father had spent many an afternoon reading aloud to his family, both from scripture and sermons with inspiring titles, such as <em>The Temple of Virtue</em>, or <em>Addresses to Young Men</em>. When he’d grown a little older, he’d been introduced to his Latin by the great classics, by Vergil and Livy, and later on the Catullus he snuck into his room when the candles had long been blown out, and the beauty of the Romans and the Greeks had enthralled him and never let go until the present day. It was a hobby-horse of his generation, he presumed, to find delight in the comely shapes of ancient sculpture, to wander the pastoral landscapes of the <em>Bucolica </em>in the mind’s eye, to shape one's rooms in the manner and fashion of a Greek temple. The artists of his age – Enlightenment, wasn’t that a fitting name? – followed in the footsteps of the ancients, too, writing epics in the hexametres of Ovid or biting epigrams in the style of Martial. Aziraphale fell somewhere between the two groups, penning odes and idylls. He absolutely thrived off the ability to have intellectual – well, sparring matches almost – on the topic of art and picking the splinters that fell to the ground between those conversations up to shape them into new works of art. Once, he had written twenty stanzas out of spite, trying to prove to Gabriel that it was possible to craft almost endless enjambments without making a poem lose its grace.</p><p>The thing was, though, if he was to be alone, one of the driving forces behind his work would be missing. It was highly unlikely that he would encounter someone in the village who could discuss Homer with him, or laud the merits of chiastic structure to heighten the tension of a pair of verses. Instead, he would be very lonely indeed, left to draw his inspiration from cypress trees and crimson sunsets, which of course were lovely, but nothing to compare to a person who truly inspired him.</p><p>When Tomaso offered him an apple and pulled him from his reverie, they had long since passed the borders of the town and the sun was starting its steady afternoon decline towards the west. Aziraphale could feel droplets of sweat collecting at the base of his neck.</p><p>“We have your payment order and the documents you sent over at the headquarters,” Tomaso said and his teeth got caught on the core of the apple.</p><p>Aziraphale forced a polite smile, trying to chase the negative thoughts away. “I certainly hope that everything is in order. Not that I wouldn’t trust you–”</p><p>He trusted Tomaso, that much was correct, but he couldn’t just go ahead and say what he was truly thinking, now could he? The man was now connected to the Society, and it would hardly gain him any new friends if he voiced his frustration with the way things were run in London. He shouldn’t be ungrateful, not even if Gabriel had kept few of his promises so far. A payment order had arrived, a cottage had been rented, and that was all he could have asked for. Why would someone see him off at the port or – or inform him of what else would be expected of him here, except for producing literature, of course. Perhaps Gabriel himself didn’t know it either. It couldn’t be malice, those people were his friends, how silly of him to even entertain the thought.</p><p>“Ha,” said Tomaso and spit a bite of apple over the side of the cart, tossing the core into the ditch, where the swampy ground was trying to gain the upper hand. “You’re thinking too much, signore. It’s not good for you.”</p><p>“Why, dear boy, I think that is my choice to make.” Aziraphale knew he was right, of course he did; he’d always been an overthinker but this wasn’t the time to reconsider that fact of his existence. He turned to look at the road ahead instead, where old fortifications rose against the sky, and a rush of excitement passed through his veins, so he exclaimed in wonder, “Those must be the walls of Rome!”</p><p>Tomaso laughed. “Oh yes, yes, they are. We will soon reach the Porta San Paolo, and from there, it won’t be very long. If you’re lucky, you might even catch a glimpse of the church, depending on which road we’ll be taking.”</p><p>And with that, the young man left Aziraphale to marvel at the sights ahead of them, talking in hushed tones to his father in his native Italian. Time seemed to pass much more quickly now, as Aziraphale took in building upon building, as they steadily grew nearer. The excitement didn’t quite let go of him, not even when he chided himself for so childish a reaction – in the gross and scope of matters, the outline ahead of him was nothing but walls, the lacklustre houses of the commoners flocking close to the city, and the occasional glimpse of golden light reflected off a church roof; but to Aziraphale, it <em>meant</em> something.</p><p>People walked past them – workers shouldering their tools, women in large, flowing skirts, and a young man in the livery of a noble house – but he didn’t pay them much attention as he observed children play in the small slip of grass besides the road where a large wooden cross had been erected. He couldn’t make out what they were speaking about, but their laughter and smiles were infectious. When he finally looked up from them, he saw something strange and quite out of place rise against the sky behind them – how he had not noticed it before, he could not tell. A pyramid of grey stonework rose right by the walls, tall and proud and seemingly unwithered by age except for the small gatherings of green plants that grew in between the cracks.</p><p>Tomaso smirked when he saw how large Aziraphale’s eyes had grown. “That, Signore Fell, is the grave of a man called Cestio. He was buried here almost one thousand and eight hundred years ago, can you imagine that?”</p><p>“Quite incredible. Is this not the dream, to be remembered even a millennium after your own time?”</p><p>“<em>Sí!</em> Although, perhaps, for something you did and not for a pyramid.”</p><p>Aziraphale smiled to himself and wiggled contentedly against the hay. It was almost as though the scenery had dispelled the dark thoughts clouding his mind. “Most certainly. And yet I can’t help thinking that <em>The Pyramid of Aziraphale Fell </em>sounds nearly as nice as <em>The Collected Poems of Aziraphale Fell</em>.”</p><p>The shadow of the gate passed slowly over their heads, and he could feel the change in temperature. Where the slightly humid afternoon air had made his shirt stick to his sweaty back underneath his far too heavy coat, a cool breeze swept him up in its grip and made him shiver until they passed on the other side.</p><p>The streets were brimming with life, and Aziraphale could barely take his eyes off the many sights they passed by. He watched as tall, red-brick walls, strong like giant’s legs, rose and fell on the roadside, tinted orange in the languid spring sunlight. Gilded church roofs reflected it, amplifying the effect of warmth and brightness, and for a moment, he could see it in his mind’s eye: The Rome that Augustus found made of brick and transformed into marble. All the same, the scent of half-charred food and trampled-down straw clouded the streets between inns and stables, and raucous laughter rang in his ears. A seagull passed over his head and cast a shadow, and his eyes caught on orange trees, obscured by the remainders of a wall – a garden, sweet-scented and fragile in the heart of a city.</p><p>A hill rose high above the dirtied, once brightly white-washed houses, and Aziraphale knew it must be the Palatine – he saw the arches, the walls, the ruins of glorious palaces which he had read about, dreamt about for some thirty-odd years. It was a mystery to him how he’d never been here before – why hadn’t he gone and left his home behind when he was still young and green, settled here and never left again?</p><p>He had been thirteen when he’d first bought a book of his own. The late Mr. Fell had owned an impressive library, but it was a limited choice. Sermons had lined one wall, and the shelves on another had been filled with bible exegesis and other scientific texts. He’d learnt about the theory of light, the genera of flowers and the rare animals of South America, all masterpieces of God’s divine work in the world, and he’d been full of wonder to know those things, of course he had, but it had not captured his heart. Even at so young an age, Aziraphale had shown an interest in the classics that far outweighed his peers, who looked at him and his Vergil with amusement and contempt both, considering how they’d barely managed to leave those dusty volumes behind in their lessons together.</p><p>The first book he bought had been a slightly run-down copy of Suetonius. He hadn’t realised why his father objected to having the volume in his library, but once he’d snuck it into his room where he read it in the lazy hours on Sunday after mass, he understood. And yet, the images never left his mind, of powerful emperors, their gorgeous palaces and scandalous entourage. Young Aziraphale’s fantasy had been running wild with it, and he remembered even now, though his imaginations were tamer and his knowledge broader.</p><p>Finally, the cart pulled to a stop on a large square filled with market stalls, in the middle of which a round temple stood, its columns decorated with wild flowers cut from marble. A young man leant against one of them, lanky and somewhat pale, wearing a brown overcoat and a rather open collar of a more modern fashion. The moment he set eyes on Tomaso, he smiled and waved them over.</p><p>Tomaso jumped off the cart and brushed the hay off his breeches before extending a hand to help Aziraphale step onto the dirty ground. He nearly stumbled, still overwhelmed with the sights around him and distracted from the path ahead of him.</p><p>The young man walked over to them, waving excitedly, and it made him seem a little clumsy but also quite friendly, which relieved Aziraphale greatly. He wore large spectacles too, making him look more like an apprentice steward and less like the representative of a distinguished society of arts.</p><p>“Mr. Fell, welcome to Rome!” he exclaimed once he had met them in the middle of the square. “I hope you had a pleasant journey?”</p><p>“Quite so. I <em>do </em>suffer a slight strain in my back, but that’s what travel will do to you at my age, Mr –” </p><p>The name had escaped his mind, but the young man didn’t seem to mind. Instead, he smiled and bowed politely albeit a little clumsily.</p><p>“Newton Pulsifer, sir. I am coordinating your stay. If you have any questions or concerns, I’ll do my best to answer them. We’ll head for the countryside as soon as we have picked up your documents and the luggage you sent over.”</p><p>“Oh, excellent!” said Aziraphale, and he followed as Mr. Pulsifer set into motion.</p><p>Pulsifer walked quickly and Aziraphale had a hard time following him through the crowd. The young man clearly knew how to find his path past the masses of market goers, and while he did not radiate confidence per se, it was noticeable that he felt at home here and that he knew well what he was doing. While he was very obviously British too, he must have spent quite some time in Rome to fit in so seamlessly.</p><p>They squeezed through a net of smaller streets and alleys, skirting past the dirt left behind by the horses passing through the city. Tomaso was following a few paces behind them until Aziraphale lost sight of him shortly after they walked past the entrance to an inn, but before he could ask Pulsifer about his whereabouts, they stopped in front of a gloriously decorated facade, which seemed to be at least a hundred years old, considering how worn the stucco decorations around the monumental entrance were. Small putti were holding up a scroll atop the heavy wooden doors, and its inscription read: <em>Società inglese dell’ arte.</em></p><p>“Welcome to our humble quarters, Mr. Fell,” Pulsifer said, with a lopsided smile. “After you.”</p><p>The sight that greeted Aziraphale upon entering was anything but humble. The walls were painted in tasteful creams, browns and whites, hinting at tree-dotted landscapes. Gold details gave it a noble but subdued touch. It was a lovely sight, especially paired with the old marble floor, which made the sounds of his heels echo with each step.</p><p>A clerk sat behind a desk toward the end of the hall, scribbling away in a book and barely looking up at them. He wore a comically large monocle, seeming like he could have stepped right out of a book.</p><p>“Mr. Fell, good afternoon,” the clerk said without looking up. “Your luggage has arrived and been stowed away in your carriage, and I took the liberty to sort your documents in with them.”</p><p>He reached into one of the drawers of his desk and pulled a heavy bag of coins out. “Travel bonds will get you nowhere where you are going, so I have exchanged some of them to scudi romani already, but you can pick the rest up here if you need them. Don’t spend too much.”</p><p>“Oh, I wouldn’t!” Aziraphale said as he reached for the money, although he knew only too well that he would not stop himself from indulging.</p><p>He was here to enjoy himself, and to let that enjoyment fuel his creativity, his <em>genius</em>, as the younger generations said. If that entailed intricate pastry, mild brewed coffee at a fancy coffee house, comfortable brocade cushions and etchings bought from Roman artisans, then so help him, he was a hedonist without shame.</p><p>“Excellent,” the clerk said, in a voice so deadpan that it betrayed his disbelief. “You will find the carriage ready if you pass through the second door on the right into the courtyard.”</p><p>And with that, he turned back to his books, and Aziraphale was left to ponder the purse in his hand, getting carried away with thoughts of local cuisine and fine art pieces until Mr. Pulsifer cleared his throat and inclined his head towards the heavy door leading into the right wing of the building. He followed him and trailed the delicate stucco decorations on the walls with his eyes, wondering at the attention to detail. It was a building designed to house art and her disciples, he shouldn’t be surprised, and yet – it was so marvellously aged, nothing like the imitations of Roman art they had commissioned for their London quarters some fifteen years ago. <em>These </em>looked like they had seen a hundred.</p><p>They reached the stables where a delightful, black-painted carriage was waiting for them with Aziraphale’s belongings strapped to the back. It looked almost like a post carriage but sleeker, and most likely faster. When he climbed into the carriage, he found a briefcase there, filled with the rest of his bonds and the papers he had sent over. Pulsifer followed him, calling out to the coachman in Italian, and began fiddling with a brass key he’d pulled from his suit pocket. He seemed a little awkward, as though he did not know how to start a conversation with a stranger, but his blue eyes shone with something like excitement nonetheless.</p><p>Light passed through the thin curtains in the carriage windows once they passed through the gate, slowly rolling past the Romans going about their day. Judging by the speed they were going at, it must be around the time most of them put down their work and made their way to places they’d rather be – their homes, their favourite inn, or a public garden, perhaps.</p><p>“So, Mr. Pulsifer,” Aziraphale said, when he started to consider the silence uncomfortable instead of comforting, “pray tell me, what is this village of yours like? It must have done something to earn this high reputation it holds in your circles.”</p><p>Pulsifer seemed relieved at this opening, and his face lit up with a gentle smile. It was polite, certainly, but there was something genuine and open to him, which endeared him to Aziraphale within a moment.</p><p>“Well,” he began, “for a start, it is situated very well, just on the outskirts of the Alban mountains, some nine miles from Rome. The scenery is beautiful – I am certain you will find it very inspiring!”</p><p>“By the Alban mountains, you say? How delightfully classical.”</p><p>“It’s near ancient Tusculum,” Pulsifer pointed out, “that’s of course another part of the charm – you get both the untouched nature and the spirit of the Roman tradition in one place.”</p><p>“Charming,” Aziraphale said. “I assume that it <em>is</em> rather idyllic. The landscape is marvellous here already, after all. Do the people live up to this image?”</p><p>Pulsifer shifted a little in his seat and adjusted the glasses on the bridge of his nose. “Well, I suppose that they cannot live up to your standards in London. They live rather simple lives, most of them. It’s predominantly farmers, if I’m honest, bakers, craftsmen and such like. But they’re kind and helpful, and that’s all that matters in the end. It’s part of the charm.”</p><p>He smiled carefully, as though he expected Aziraphale to express displeasure. Certainly, Aziraphale was less than thrilled to be working outside the bubble of other artists who he could discuss his works with, to find points that he could cover in his poems, but he could also treasure his time on his own. He was not going to give the young man any grief over this lack of social connections – it wasn’t his fault, after all! –, and yet Pulsifer seemed to be concerned that he would. It occurred to Aziraphale that this must be the man who had conversed with Gabriel in order to arrange this journey, because <em>Gabriel</em> surely would have had something to say about standards<a href="#_ftn1" id="_ftnref1" name="_ftnref1">[1]</a>.</p><p>“Certainly. I imagine it almost like a scene out of the <em>Bucolica</em>.”</p><p>Pulsifer shot him a confused look and Aziraphale could feel the unpleasant trickle of embarrassment in his neck. He’d assumed that, as a member of an artistic society, Pulsifer would embrace and appreciate his comparison, but it appeared that the lad had no idea what Aziraphale was referencing.</p><p>“Vergil? You are familiar, sir, are you not?” he asked, carefully, even though he couldn’t help the disappointment tinting his voice.</p><p>“Only by name, I’m afraid,” Pulsifer said, and glanced rather insistently at a spot on the carriage wall behind Aziraphale’s shoulder. “I am not an expert on the classics, one might say.”</p><p>“How… interesting. What is your field of expertise, then, if I might ask?”</p><p>The lad’s face lit up at the question, almost as though no-one had considered asking him before, and when Aziraphale noticed how lively his pale blue eyes suddenly seemed, he realised there was more to the young man than met the eye, and that this was likely the reason they had entrusted him this task – he seemed unobtrusive enough, but a strong personality simmered below his pale exterior.</p><p>“Well, mostly, I engage with the natural sciences – the study of light and colour and electricity –, but I’m fascinated by the novel as well, which I’m certain has been covered marvellously by writers such as yourself. Isn’t it wonderful? How much our century produces, both in fantastical writings and… science. Facts.”</p><p>“I wouldn’t consider myself a novelist, Mr. Pulsifer, not by any means. It has been a great many years since I last even penned a <em>novella</em>. Besides–” he stopped in his tracks.</p><p>The thing was – Mr. Pulsifer seemed like a very likeable, honest man, and Aziraphale didn’t want to insult him or his tastes on their first acquaintance, but novels were a very complicated subject in his opinion, if by <em>complicated</em>, one meant <em>completely insufferable</em>. He understood perfectly well that it was fashionable these days, damn it, he had even read and enjoyed a novel or two himself, but to call it <em>art</em>, name novels among the best that literature had to offer? Now that was plain presumptuous. To think that the novel might one day take the place of the epos – what a dreadful prospect. Those novelists did their level best to make their works appear as though they were not results of fiction, confusing their audience and misusing their trust, while honest poets (which Aziraphale was inclined to count himself among<a href="#_ftn2" id="_ftnref2" name="_ftnref2">[2]</a>) utilised the profundity of their emotion to reveal a higher truth. He would write about heroes, both popular and unsung, of a mighty past, the reverence for God, and even the greatest good above them all, love; but he’d rather be damned before he picked up a pen to write about the romance inherent to adventure. And to think that it had all become a favourite of the public and the critics alike because a <em>journalist </em>of all people had decided to twist the story of an unlucky Scotsman into a fable! But, of course, he would not tell Mr. Pulsifer <em>that</em>.</p><p>“Besides–” he began again, “I will devote myself solely to poetry while I stay here.”</p><p>Pulsifer smiled politely. “Of course. After all, my superiors do expect your stay to be successful.”</p><p>“And why wouldn’t they?” Aziraphale said, aiming for a light-hearted chuckle, but the sound that escaped his throat sounded rather strangled.</p><p>“Their, er, expectations should account for the content of one of the letters in your briefcase.”</p><p>A heavy silence settled between them as Aziraphale reached out for the briefcase and gently rested a palm on top of the leather, as though that would keep the contents of the case from ever having to see the light of day again. He had known of course that he would be asked to present his works at the end of his stay, but he had not been aware of the fact that instructions would be included, and precise ones at that. The thought made him feel a little fuzzy with apprehension. He had never been too fond of what he considered Gabriel’s little performance reviews, but at least he had grown used to that particular needling. Imagining strangers’ faces, listening to his voice carry his own words, made his stomach churn with anxiety. Aziraphale wrote to be read, not to be heard. He wasn’t some medieval monk, thank you very much, and he could consider his audience literate enough to consume his works in the peace and quiet of their minds.</p><p>He watched for a while as the sparse landscape passed them by, not yet touched by the heat of summer and dotted with small flowers, occasionally broken up by the outline of cypress trees, lined up between fields like pearls on a string, except more lush and colourful than any pearl could ever hope to be. After a while, Pulsifer cleared his throat.</p><p>“As I said earlier, the people here live rather simple lives and mostly stay to themselves. They are cheery but not… overly involved in the activities of the society.”</p><p>“Indeed,” Aziraphale said, waiting for the young man to get to his point. It was obvious that he hadn’t had this sort of conversation before, and that it was a rather delicate topic, and Aziraphale found his hesitance somewhat amusing.</p><p>“You are not the first we are sending to stay at the lodge and in the past – well, they understand that some artists need their muses and I suppose that as long as you are discrete about it, they do not mind it.”</p><p>“I’m afraid I don’t understand your point.”</p><p>Pulsifer sighed and Aziraphale could see the moment he stopped bothering with decency in the set of his shoulders.</p><p>“The man they sent before you – an oil painter – he screwed the mayor’s daughter. And the one before that–”</p><p>“I understand it now and I can assure you that this won’t be a concern. I don’t tend to fall for the people I draw inspiration from.”</p><p>“Very well. I never meant to assume. Actually, I’ve been told to let you know that. Maybe my superiors misunderstood a rumour of some sort, or consider it a general precaution, but I’ll… just shut up about it now. Yes, that sounds like a good idea.”</p><p>Aziraphale could only imagine too well what sort of <em>rumour</em> that might have been. It was not a secret among his colleagues in London that he shared more with the ancient Greek than an appreciation for marble, but attraction to men was not frowned upon among them. While his fellow artists, however, maintained relationships with the objects of their art, Aziraphale’s relationship with them was complicated to say the least. He was determined to never fall in love with any of them, and so far, it had worked out nicely. Emotions only distorted the words inside him, so he viewed them more as the muses they functioned as than as the people they were. He never allowed himself to get too close to them on a personal level, so they could separate without hard feelings.</p><p>Pulsifer studied him curiously, before he finally said, “I am sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”</p><p>Aziraphale forced a polite smile. “No need to feel sorry.”</p><p>The silence between them didn’t last for long and was broken when Pulsifer suddenly leant forwards and pulled the curtains aside a bit further to look out of the window, gesturing excitedly at the outline of a building in the distance.</p><p>“Oh, look, I almost forgot to mention – this estate we are passing by now, it belongs to a certain Miss Device. She is a patron of our society, and she will soon invite you for tea. It would be good to accept that invitation, even if only on behalf of the Roman branch.”</p><p>He nodded and watched as they passed the tree-lined road that led up to a large estate, which seemed brightly white-washed and tasteful even from afar. It was a delightful place, and Aziraphale found he wouldn’t mind visiting a place as lovely as this one.</p><p>“And is this Miss Device good company?” he asked, grateful for the change of subject.</p><p>Pulsifer’s expression turned softer, and his eyes took on a slightly dreamy quality. He couldn’t hide his very obvious affection for the woman, not even in polite conversation with a stranger<a href="#_ftn3" id="_ftnref3" name="_ftnref3">[3]</a>. “Oh, she’s a very fine young woman. Very kind, and intelligent – and lively, and beautiful.”</p><p>“Everything anyone could hope to be,” Aziraphale said, and smiled kindly at Pulsifer, who seemed happy at this approval.</p><p>“Oh, yes. She inherited this estate after her father passed, and has used it wisely ever since. It’s not just dances and parties, she also handles the agricultural duties remarkably well. Her tenants can consider themselves very lucky to have a landlady such as her. You really should visit her, she is a delight to be acquainted with.”</p><p>“I will call on her then, as soon as the circumstances allow me to.”</p><p>The coach called out to them in this moment, <em>siamo arrivato</em>, and the carriage came to a stop outside a low-roofed lodge. It wasn’t very far from the Device estate, and Aziraphale realised that it must be another mile or so until they would reach the village centre from here when he clutched the briefcase and exited the carriage.</p><p>The sun was slowly setting by this time, and Aziraphale blinked against the mellow orange light. It was still warm and soft, something entirely different to the sunsets he was used to seeing in England, where they seemed much colder and paler at this time of year. Instead, the light here tinted the walls of the lodge in a bright, deep yellow. The façade was decorated with pillars, holding up a balcony atop the entrance, and several large windows faced towards the setting sun. It looked quite quaint, like a house Aziraphale could fancy himself living in. Well, he supposed that <em>was</em> what he would do for the foreseeable future.</p><p>A woman dressed in a plain black dress and pinafore was waiting for them by the entrance and she greeted Mr. Pulsifer with a cheerful smile and a curtsey.</p><p>“<em>Bonasera, Signore Pulsifer. Lui è Signore Fell? Il poeta inglese</em>?”</p><p>Her voice was bright with excitement, and Aziraphale was thankful that he could put together what she was saying, but he also realised that there was a good chance that her English was as limited as his own Italian. He’d picked up a little from a travel guide, but Aziraphale had never been an easy learner of languages. His attempts at French had already proven disastrous in the past.</p><p>Pulsifer instructed the coach to carry the luggage inside the lodge and led Aziraphale and the woman inside, into a dim entrance hall that was lined with grocery-filled boxes that must have arrived shortly before they did, since two girls were still at work stowing them away.</p><p>“Mr. Fell, this is Signora Maud, her husband works for us as a messenger,” Pulsifer said, nodding his head in the woman’s direction. “She will be your housekeeper for the duration of your stay. And the girls are Elisabetta and Giovanna, the cook and the maid respectively. I’m afraid that only Signora Maud speaks some English, since her husband is an Englishman, but the gardener can help you. He will drop by every three days or so, but you can ask him for any translation you need.”</p><p>“Thank you, dear,“ Aziraphale said, before turning towards the housekeeper. “<em>Grazie per aiutare, Signora Maud</em>.”</p><p>He stumbled a little over his words, and she smiled kindly at his effort before responding in very heavily accented English, “You are welcome.”</p><p>The housekeeper led them further into the house, which was centred around a large hall illuminated by a low-hanging chandelier. A spiral staircase with a cast-iron railing led upstairs onto a gallery, from where four heavy wooden doors led to different rooms, which Aziraphale presumed to be the master bedroom and guest rooms. The coachman and the girls passed them by with his luggage, heaving the boxes and suitcases upstairs.</p><p>Pulsifer led them through the doors at the other end of the hall, which opened to a small but well-stocked library with dark shelves that left no inch of the wall behind it uncovered. The volumes looked old and used, and Aziraphale could imagine them passing through dozens of hands as other poets and artists spent their time here, away from the city. The smell of the leather bindings made him smile contentedly.</p><p>“We have set up a desk for you here, but if you need it moved, that can be arranged easily. There’s an atelier set up in the gallery next door, if that is more to your liking.”</p><p>Aziraphale cast a glance to his left, where the desk stood. He would not have any natural light there, but he found that this didn’t bother him very much, so he expressed this to Pulsifer. The desk was really set up rather nicely, with thick paper, inkwells, and reference books lined up within reach. He saw a dictionary there, and a thesaurus, as well as a handbook of Latin poets, well suited to the literary tastes of a writer like Aziraphale. He wondered if Gabriel had informed them about his works, or if it was merely a coincidence.</p><p>“Well,” Pulsifer finally said, after silence had fallen between them once again. “I am glad that the arrangements are to your liking. I will stop by every couple of weeks, but in case you need anything, feel free to send me a messenger in Rome. Have a pleasant evening.”</p><p>“Goodbye, Mr. Pulsifer.”</p><p>Pulsifer bowed politely, and Aziraphale followed the housekeeper to the room they had prepared for him, watching him leave, and hoping that the other people he would encounter here were as nice and easy to converse with as him.</p>
<hr/><p>Aziraphale laid on the blanket of his new bed, lost in thoughts. This was a rather nice place to work, wasn’t it? The library had seemed cosy enough, and the grounds he could see through his window were small, but lovely. A well-taken-care-of garden, with flower beds and a pond, and beyond that, wide fields, on which a crop would grow in a couple of months.</p><p>He could take a walk across the fields tomorrow, sit down with his water colours and try to capture the landscape first in an image, and then in his words. Or, perhaps, he could take a look at the gallery Pulsifer had mentioned. Maybe he could choose a painting there, to describe the colour and impact of it, to hone his words before they were needed for a sonnet, or an epigram.</p><p>It wasn’t very late yet, so he decided that he might as well go and take a look now. He slipped his shoes and coat on again and reached for the candle on his nightstand. The house was eerily quiet when he stepped out onto the corridor and took the stairs down into the hall, with no other sound than the clicking of his shoes hollowly echoing between the high walls. If he remembered correctly, he was supposed to take the door on the left, which would then lead him into the gallery, so he leant gently against wood that creaked under his shoulder.</p><p>The gallery was a long, wide room, at the centre of which an easel and a couple of draped boxes stood, left behind by painters or sculptors past. Moonlight lit up the room, so he set his candle down next to the easel and began exploring. One wall was dotted with high windows, set in stucco decorations, while the other was hung with paintings. Most of them were portraits of people Aziraphale had never seen before, and most likely never would, considering how old-fashioned their clothing was. In between them, mythological scenes and bucolic idylls decorated the dark walls, and he smiled at some of the subject matters. Whoever had decorated this place had had great taste, that much was certain.</p><p>He could certainly use some of those as a starting point. It had been a long time since he’d tried his hand at anything mythological, but it might just be what he needed to get back on track. Or perhaps he could use the painting of a shepherd resting against his crook as inspiration. It wouldn’t be the same as talking about his ideas with someone who could appreciate them and offer criticism, or as having a muse you wanted to write to and about and for, all at the same time.</p><p>He passed by another portrait of a woman who held a fan between her hands. She was dressed all in black, and wore a serious expression, but there was a certain beautiful melancholy in her eyes. A sentimental soul, just like the young poets of this century would have worshipped, but Aziraphale himself wasn’t entirely charmed by the idea. He preferred the idea of someone who could uproot the dullness of his routine only to disappear as quickly as they’d come to someone who would sigh and break his heart nonetheless.</p><p>She looked sad, and unhappy, and Aziraphale promised himself that he wouldn’t be like that, not while he was here. He would make the most of his vacation, would create and fall in love again, with life. Would paint, and write, and make a few acquaintances. It would be good.</p><p>Yes, for once, Aziraphale felt like things would truly be good.</p>
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  <strong>Footnotes.</strong>
</p><p><a href="#_ftnref1" id="_ftn1" name="_ftn1">[1]</a> Not that Aziraphale didn’t have standards himself, he had plenty of them – for fashion, for food, but not for people. He neither rejoiced in nor recoiled at a low societal standing, because at the end of the day, they were all born as humans and would die as humans but what lay between those two points was largely ruled by coincidence.</p><p><a href="#_ftnref2" id="_ftn2" name="_ftn2">[2]</a> Even if he thought he’d lost his special something, his edge, he still considered himself an honest man of his trade, someone who honed his skills and stuck to the rules, just as it was supposed to be done.</p><p><a href="#_ftnref3" id="_ftn3" name="_ftn3">[3]</a> Although, considering the content of their previous conversation, it was mildly debatable at least if it could still be called <em>polite</em> by societal standards.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed the first chapter, consider subscribing and leaving kudos :)<br/>The title of this fic is from Mitski's "Strawberry Blond".</p></blockquote></div></div>
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